


A Learning Experience

by branwyn



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Friendship, Poverty, Privilege, attempted sexual exploitation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-02 23:39:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/branwyn/pseuds/branwyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing about being poor is the way it eats at your self-respect.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>for this prompt: http://cabinpres-fic.dreamwidth.org/3282.html?thread=4781522#cmt4781522</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Learning Experience

"Your luggage, Mr Birling."

Douglas stands beneath the wing of the aeroplane, slightly weightier than he had been at take-off for the wad of cash recently re-located from the wallet of MJN's favorite octogenarian passenger to the wallet now making a pleasantly obtrusive bump through his very own hip pocket. He hums contentedly to himself, and engages in one of his more enjoyable pastimes, which is doing nothing, while watching Martin engage in unpleasant manual labor.

There is, however, something ever so slightly off about the accustomed tableau this year. Judging from the expressions on both their faces, Martin's toadying has once again been deemed sub-par, and Mr Birling's wallet remains determinedly encumbered by at least a third of the ready cash with which he had come prepared to win the affections, or at least the subservience, of the cabin crew. The disgruntled expression on Mr Birling's face strikes Douglas as slightly odd, as in his experience Mr Birling has come to take rather a bastardly sort of delight in toying with Martin and then disappointing him at the last moment. The look on Martin's face, however, lacks the disappointed, hang-dog sort of quality that is normally the hallmark of Birling Day at its close. He's fetched Mr Birling's luggage, to be sure, and he's carrying it to the waiting car, which would seem to indicate an ongoing commitment to toadying in the preferred style, but Martin's expression is disconcertingly closed off. Not quite grim, but bordering on it. 

It is, in fact, the sort of look Martin only gets when, rather than frantically attempting to prove to all and sundry that he is, no really, he is, he _is_ a professional, he's stopped caring altogether what anyone watching might think of him, and starts to behave, ironically, like a true professional, if more or less by accident. The last time Douglas saw that look on Martin's face, Martin had been landing an aeroplane in a crosswind on one engine. Half an hour later, Douglas had been standing in the corner of the loo, holding Martin's hat and trying to think of something vaguely comforting to say while Martin voided the contents of stomach into the toilet.

While Martin does not, at present, look nauseous, so much as pinched, pale, and furious, the deviation from his customary post-Birling Day air of impecunious despair is sufficiently intriguing to captivate Douglas's curiosity. So when Martin shuts the boot of Mr Birling's car on the last of his luggage, and walks back toward GERTI without offering the man so much as a tip of the hat in farewell, Douglas walks forward--casually, he hopes--and gives Martin a keen once-over.

"I take it that it this year's Birling Day ended, unfortunately for you, in the traditional manner of Birling Days past," says Douglas, careful not to sound either too mocking or too sympathetic.

Martin's short, bitter laugh takes Douglas by surprise. "Not precisely, no."

"Oh?" Douglas arches an eyebrow. "I took your rather dour look on seeing him to his car as a sign that your manners, however pleasing to others, once again failed to capture--"

"Oh, just shut _up_ , Douglas." Martin's face remains pale, but there are two bright spots of hectic color high on his cheekbones, which has the effect of making him look rather like a Victorian consumptive.

"What on earth's got into you?" Douglas narrows his eyes at Martin, only just noticing how the younger man's fists are clenched at his sides. "Did the old boy say something to you? I really wouldn't take it to heart, you know. Being richer than God and having no one to please but himself, one can hardly expect him to remember trifles like manners."

"Yes, well, there are manners, and then there are--" Martin stops talking abruptly, his mouth becoming a thin white line. Then he whirls on Douglas, quite unexpectedly, and Douglas is startled into taking a step back.

"As your captain, Douglas--"

"Oh, see here--"

" _As your captain,_ from now on, I am issuing a strict moratorium on any more stories that feature you slithering your way into the beds of stewardesses," Martin plows on, which is so entirely the opposite of how Douglas was expecting Martin to end that sentence that he is quite shocked into silence. For a few seconds, at least.

"I suppose I can restrain myself in future, if it is truly a matter of such very great import to _Sir_ ," says Douglas, going light on the sarcasm for once, because he has a nasty feeling there's something more than Martin's occasional bout of totalitarianism at the back of this sudden ultimatum. "Might I inquire what prompted this change of heart? As I recall, you rather enjoyed some of those stories. And they do rather pass the time."

"It's unprofessional, that's all," Martin snaps. "Not to mention highly disrespectful, chauvinistic, and exploitative. Stewardesses are vital to maintaining order among the passengers, and reducing them to the level of sex objects is--well, it's beneath the dignity of--of anyone. I won't have it, Douglas, I hope that's quite understood."

"Very much understood, yes," says Douglas slowly. "I must say I'm impressed to find you such an enlightened man, Martin. Had a consciousness-raising experience recently, did we?"

Suddenly, the color spreads from the two small spots high on Martin's cheekbones to suffuse the entirety of his face and neck. His fists grow tighter, the knuckles strained and white.

And _that_ is when Douglas's accumulated thirty years of professional flying experience (which had included several friendships of a perfectly decent nature with a number of stewardesses, more than one of whom he'd had the misfortune to witness stumbling out of the flight deck with their ties askew, wearing that _precise_ expression of furious mortification on their faces) finally drops the penny that has been spinning in the air for the last five minutes. Douglas gapes at Martin, and just as quickly forces his features into a semblance of order.

"Martin," he says carefully. "Am I to understand--did that grasping old sinner actually have the effrontery to make some sort of-- _pass_ at you?"

Rather than coloring even more deeply, or snarling at Douglas that he should mind his own business, Martin looks him dead in the eye.

"I could have cleaned you all out, if I'd wanted," he says. "He had five grand apiece for us, but he offered me every penny of it in exchange for sucking him off."

Douglas stares at Martin, feeling suddenly as though it might be his turn to ask Martin to hold his hat. His stomach is churning rather unpleasantly.

"Fifteen grand," says Martin casually, glancing off to the side. "I could have bought a new van with that money, and had enough left over for rent and food for months."

Douglas wishes, suddenly, that it had never crossed his mind to open this line of questioning with Martin. And just as suddenly, he feels ashamed of himself, because it is quite possible that Douglas is the only person in the world to whom Martin _could_ confide such a thing, and while he counts himself quite lucky not to have any personal experiences of a similar nature to compare this to, he is under the impression that keeping a secret of this sort is more inclined to do the secret-keeper harm than good.

"Martin," says Douglas, "if you're trying to provoke me into asking you why you didn't take the money, I'm afraid you're in for rather a long wait. As much as I sympathize with your no doubt fearsome desire to have a go at someone right now, I simply cannot find it in me to make a joke of any kind about this."

Martin turns a swift, sharp look at Douglas. He seems to be searching Douglas's face for mockery, or something worse, but Douglas is certain there is nothing to see in his expression, except perhaps a trace of the anger he can't quite conceal.

When Martin finally looks away, his own expression is rather less composed than before.

"You know what the worst thing is about being poor?" he says. "It's not having to do without things. It's the way it eats at your self-respect, even your integrity. You walk through a supermarket and you see a can of beans, and you think, if I just slipped this in my pocket, no one in this store would be the worse for it, and that would be a whole meal I didn't have to pay for. And if you don't do it, well then you're honest, but you're also hungry, and when you're hungry it's rather difficult to remember what was so grand about honesty in the first place." Martin grimaces. "And what's worse still is that people like Mr Birling know all about that. That's why he treats everyone like they're for sale, because sometimes---" Martin swallows. "Sometimes, it's really, really hard _not_ to be."

Because Martin isn't looking at him, Douglas allows himself the luxury of covering his face with his hand for a moment. Then he straightens up, and clears his throat. They both stand there in silence for about a minute.

"You know, I think I'll have a word with Carolyn," Douglas murmurs. Martin whirls on him, clearly about to burst forth in a bout of babbling, but Douglas cuts him off. "I rather think that, at his age, Mr Birling is becoming a flight risk. I don't think our insurance would cover it, if he were to have suffer some sort of unfortunate illness during a flight."

"Oh," says Martin. He expels a long, deep breath and nods. A slightly more normal color begins to return to his face. "Well, as first officer, you certainly have the right to--to make that determination."

"Yes, I rather think I do."

Douglas turns, on the verge of re-entering the plane and--he's not sure what he's going to do next. Sit and stare at some flight logs without actually filling them out, while he contemplates the sort of life Martin leads, with his attic and his beans on toast, and his sense of self-respect, so iron-clad that monarchs would envy it. But then a thought comes to him, and he stops. He digs out his wallet, and retrieves the neatly clipped bundle of cash that Mr Birling had pressed into his hands, just an hour before.

"Take this," he says, grasping Martin's open hand and closing the boy's fingers over the money.

Martin blinks, looking down, then pales. "Douglas, no, I don't want--"

" _I don't want it either_ ," Douglas snaps. "I don't want it on my person, and I don't want anything I could buy with it. Just--as a favor to me, all right? Put it somewhere I don't have to look at it, I don't care if you put it in the church poor box."

Martin looks at him, the expression on his face oddly gentle and dangerously close to gratitude. It's more than Douglas can bear at the moment. 

Martin opens his mouth, as though to say something, but Douglas strides off, out of sight, without giving him the chance.


End file.
